


Plain Jane and the Freak

by jackabee, Quilly



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 23:28:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1706474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackabee/pseuds/jackabee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilly/pseuds/Quilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Like he would even accept! You were just some plain Jane who sat across the classroom from him, the only thing you were doing was making an utter fool of yourself in the eyes of the school.'</p><p>'So they think you’re a joke, right? Ask out the freak for kicks, get off scot free when he says no because he’s Weird? Yeah. No. Not gonna fly, not today, buckaroo.'</p><p>A ficlet prompt that spiraled into a back-and-forth story between myself and Quilly on our respective Tumblrs, posted here for your viewing pleasure and ease!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1 - By Feli

Curse the rules of Extreme Truth or Dare. Curse them to oblivion – would you if you could! Your mouth is far too dry to summon up a singular sugar-coated swear, which is probably half of the reason Roxy subjected you to such a dare. She’s standing off to the side with Calliope, giggling into her hands, and you shoot them both the darkest look you can muster. It only makes your bestie laugh harder.

Your target is a few tables away, at the  _only_ empty table in the entire crowded lunchroom, because even the juggalo kids – the social group that  _everyone_  is afraid of in this quiet suburban school, even the teachers – don’t even dare share space with this guy. Some of him seems relatively normal; he spikes up his hair and wears jeans and t-shirts and hoodies, he plays sports well and, from the Biology class you happen to share with him, you know he’s got a razor sharp wit. There was just something… _unsettling_  about him, in his movements and his weird sunglasses that he never took off, in the plethora of colorful, oddly shaped keychains on his backpack and those days when he comes into class smelling like the auto garage you went to with your Dad once when you were eight, where hulking men in oil-stained overalls fiddled with the innards of his car and grunted about things you still don’t understand. No question about it, Dirk Strider was just plain  ** _weird_**.

And here you were, about to ask him on a date.

Like he would even accept! You were just some plain Jane who sat across the classroom from him, the only thing you were doing was making an utter fool of yourself in the eyes of the school. But you can’t take it back – Roxy had dared you to do something else first, dance on the lunch table and sing a showtune, but you weren’t about to participate in such absurdity before spring break at least. These things had to be timed perfectly. This was your punishment dare, and if you couldn’t follow through with this, she’d come up with something else. Something  _worse._

Better to just get it over with.

You take a deep breath and cross to his table. It’s got a kind of border around it, unseen and unmentioned but acknowledged by all, and the moment you fail to give it berth eyes are swiveling towards you. Not Dirk’s, though. He’s filling out a homework sheet with one hand and casually munching on fries with the other, completely preoccupied. You hover at the edge of his table and he still doesn’t notice you.

What he does notice is the hush that comes over the cafeteria. He looks up and glances around, and does a double take when he sees you.

“…Can I help you?”

He says it with as little inflection as possible, as if he’s already bored by your presence. You swallow hard.

“Would you – erm, well, that is to say – my name is Jane-”

“-Crocker. I know.”

He did? “Er, yes! And I was just…well, I wanted to ask…would you, er, like to go…go out with me?”

At least the words come smoother than the time you tried asking Jake to the middle school formal dance. That had flopped spectacularly.

There’s a beat between the two of you. Dirk doesn’t even move his head, but you can feel his eyes look you up and down before he shrugs. “Sure.”

He ignores the shocked gasps, but you can’t, flinching at the sound. “What? I mean – wait, no, you don’t-”

“Too late. The contract is sealed.” He looks back to his homework, scrawls in an answer. “How’s Friday afternoon sound? There’s a nice Chinese place down the road from here. The Kung Pow Chicken is killer, and I can get us a ride to anyplace else after if you’re up to it.”

You’re pretty sure Roxy has collapsed to the floor in laughter behind you. The urge to go and kick her in the shin rises.


	2. Part 2 - By Quilly

To be honest with yourself (and you so rarely are, lucky you), you only said yes to Crocker’s invitation to freak her out. Get back at her for the audacity, you guess; Lalonde in the background was making no secret of her histrionics. So they think you’re a joke, right? Ask out the freak for kicks, get off scot free when he says no because he’s Weird? Yeah. No. Not gonna fly, not today, buckaroo.

Maybe the fact that it’s Jane Crocker who did the asking is what pisses you off most, because you thought she at least had slightly more of a brain than the rest of her classmates, but whatever. You’re getting Chinese out of the deal and an afternoon somewhere other than your workshop, so maybe it’s a little bit of a plus.

(Okay, if you’re allowed another moment of honesty, the look of panic in her eyes when you said yes was pretty much hilarious and you want a little bit of vengeance for that pang of surprise and rush of confused semi-terror. You’re Dirk Strider. You don’t get feelings like that.)

Friday afternoon rolls around, and you’ve kept an eye on Crocker as often as you can spare, amused at her nervous fluttering. What a dork. Every time she’s looked at you this week she’s looked away very quickly, and today is certainly no different, now that it’s The Day. She looks nice, you guess; from what you recall, she’s a jeans-and-capris kind of girl usually, so the dress she wore today is a little outside her zone. Your theory is solidified as you watch her fuss over the length, pulling it down as often as she can. It doesn’t occur to you until she’s walking towards you, fiddling with the skirt, red lipstick on, that she might be self-conscious around you.

What’d be the point of that?

“Hey,” you greet, and she flashes a nervous smile.

“Hi,” she says. “Shall we go?”

“Sure,” you shrug, and because you are a gentleman, you offer her your arm. She blinks a couple of times before sliding her hand into the crook, and you set off. Man, she’s putting out vibes like a threatened rabbit. It’s kinda cute, or would be if she hadn’t tried to make a joke at your expense.

“Stop shaking, Crocker, it’s just a date,” you deadpan, and her fingers spasm on your arm as she shoots you a look she apparently doesn’t think you can see, all big blue eyes and lip-gnawing. Oh, man. Is she actually scared of you? Figures. “I’m not gonna eat you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Her cheeks dust red.

“Don’t be so absurd,” she says briskly, and picks up the pace, pulling you along a little. Well, alright, then. Feisty sort of gal, is she? “I’m just wondering if I can afford this place for the both of us.”

You make a confused sort of  _hnn?_  at her.

“I asked, so I’m paying,” she says, cheeks still red for some reason but now she won’t actually look at you. “I mean, it was your idea on where we go, but since the whole shebang was…kind of my idea…ish…alright, it was Roxy’s idea, but since I did the asking, I’m paying. No take-backsies!”

Roxy’s idea? You frown, then mentally shrug. Joke on the freak, remember? Of course it was Lalonde’s idea. It would never have been Crocker’s idea. She’s too much of a goodie-goodie sort of person for her to associate with you willingly.

But there’s still the issue of her paying, which you’re kind of uncomfortable with, actually.

“No, I got it,” you say after you find your voice. “If we do anything after, you can do the honors, but this part’s mine.”

She looks at you, face kinda puffed up with an angry little grimace, and you want to laugh because it’s…alright, it’s cute, you said it.

“Dessert’s on me, then,” she says, and you blink. Ten minutes in and already planning a second destination. Weird.

Chinese is awkward, mostly because you’re digging into your chicken and she’s picking at a stir fry, and conversation is kept to pleasantries. So, do you have hobbies? Yeah, I guess. You? Sure, I like baking. Baking, huh, that’s interesting, I like robots. Oh, robots, cool.

“You said you could get us a ride,” she says as you exit the restaurant. “What kind of ride?”

You look at her and grin, taking the keys of your baby out of your pocket. You keep her parked here because it’s easier than wrangling a permit for her, and because you know nobody will steal her while Damara is working. You indicate your baby. Jane’s eyes go terribly wide.

“That’s yours?” she squeaks, and you steer her towards it, letting the corners of your mouth tilt up in your version of grinning like that stupid cat from Alice in Wonderland.

“My pride and joy,” you say, fondly rubbing the flame detailing on the chassis. You hand her the extra helmet. “Safety first, Crocker.”

She hesitates. You hold your breath despite yourself, waiting to see what she’ll do.

You can almost see the moment when her resolve stiffens and she snatches the helmet out of your hands, fitting it over her short curly hair. It’s also endearing.

“By golly, Strider, if you kill me on this, I’m going to haunt you forever,” she promises as you fit on your own helmet and swing your leg over to settle onto your motorcycle. She follows, adjusting her skirt worriedly, and clamps her arms around your waist.

“Where to?” you ask.

“Bakery on Main,” she says, and you rev up the engine (and maybe play it up a little just to be a douche, but it’s funny when her nails dig into your ribs like that  _ow ow ow_   _okay maybe not_ ).

She holds on tight and when the ride is over she simply adjusts her skirt and pats her hair, looking windswept but oddly unruffled. You blink, then school your emotion back down.

The bakery is a pink and teal little shop nestled on a corner of Main Street, coyly called The Flour Girl Shoppe. It looks revoltingly chirpy.

“I’m not going in there,” you say before you can help yourself.

“I endured your roaring death machine. You can handle a frou-frou bakery,” she says, and you blink again as she grabs your arm and smiles. “Come on, Strider, I thought you had a better sense of adventure!”

“Adventure,” you grump, “not…whatever you need to appreciate this.”

“A tongue, mostly,” she says. “The pastries are unparalleled. Even I can’t get them as good as this place!”

Still you hesitate. Not like anybody even cares, but you have a reputation to yourself to maintain. This place is like a frosted bullet between the eyes of that self-image. You can’t do it. Nope. Who said this was a good idea? When did Crocker get the upper hand?

“You get to pick the next place if you go in, Strider,” she says, and you glance askance at her. What…is she actually starting to enjoy herself?

Come to think of it, when did  _you_  start to enjoy yourself?

“You drive a hard bargain, Crocker,” you say, and let her lead the way into the sugary portal of cute, where your dignity is going to shrivel up and die.

Tally-ho.


	3. Part 3 - By Feli

The bells on the door tinkle merrily when you step inside the bakery with your date, and despite his poker face you think he flinches at the pink, pinstriped curtains and the teal and white pop-art hung neatly on the walls. Good. You want him to flinch.

It’s not that you’re going out of your way to make Dirk uncomfortabe; the both of you are already waist-deep in stewed awkwardness, and it was definitely still boiling. It was his challenge of your mettle that you couldn’t take. Of  _course_  you could ride on the back of his gosh darned death machine, of  _course_  you could pay your own way for something  _you_  initiated. If he was going to up the ante, so were you, and by gum you were enjoying it.

(There’s a tiny voice in the back of your head that appreciates the sentiment of being treated like a lady, though. Your experience with dates are few and far between, and a gentleman’s touch is rare.)

The girl behind the counter knows the sound of your steps by now; she’s blind, with a peculiar case of synesthesia that allows her to smell and taste color, so she can pick out orders and bring them to customers waiting at tables like it was nothing at all. The fact that Miss Terezi Pyrope is in college and NOT a classmate of yours just sweetens the deal even more.

“Well how do you do, Miss Sea Breeze?” She asks, leaning over the counter. She pauses, takes another whiff of the air. “And who’s this? Orange Creamsicle? Did you get ice cream and not get any for me, Jane? You’re terrible!”

You laugh and nudge your date forward. “Oh, no! I’ve brought someone along with me for a little dessert. His name is Dirk.”

Terezi nods sagely and encourages you to sit down, promising to bring out something fresh from the back. You gravitate towards the booth at the front of the store, right outside the window. Dirk pulls a face.

“Uh…”

“Well? Come along, Mister Strider, the day’s not getting any younger!”

He sits, reluctantly and with perfect posture. “Is there anything you wanted to do after this?” He asks. “Anyplace you needed to be? Anything you have to get?”

So he was looking for a reason to rush, eh? “Oh, no, not in particular. You?”

“Why as a matter of fact, I do.” He crosses his arms, slouches ever so slightly against the back of the booth as if reluctant to expose himself to the pink pleather. “I gotta go pick something up for a project.”

“Oh? What kind of project?”

“A private one. Concerning robots.” Yes, he had mentioned liking robots. “It’s something at the hobby shop. The one near that, uh, UU Yogurt I think it’s called.”

“Oh I know that place!” Calliope’s family owned that shop, and you’d been there a few times. Never had you given that tiny old hobby shop so much as a second look. “It’s on the way to my neighborhood.”

You realize half a second after the words have come out of your mouth that you had made a mistake – giving him an opening to retaliate. There’s a very strange grin growing on his face. “Well that makes things easy. We’ll go to the hobby shop, and then I’ll drop you home for the night.”

If he was going down that way anyway, it made sense to agree – drat! Drat it all to heck and back, he’s good at this!

Terezi finally brings something out of the kitchen, a rather sizeable cupcake decorated in swirled colored icing, cyan melding in and out of bright orange. She’s brought two forks with her, too.

“Um, Terezi-” You begin, but she sets it down between the two of you and tuts.

“Don’t tell me! The Lovebird Special is too much for a first date, right?”

You pale. “Uh…”

“Roxy texted me about it while I was in the back!” Terezi winks. “She said the treat’s on her. Lucky you, huh? Usually this runs for twenty bucks!”

Oh you are going to kill your best friend when all this is over. Kill her and hide the body. No one would find it, not even if the cast of CSI teamed up with Hercule Poirot and Sherlock Homes to try and crack the case.

Terezi leaves for the back before you can clear up the situation and doesn’t come out. The two of you are left with an admittedly beautiful cupcake sitting on a plate, and each other.

Dirk sighs and takes a fork. “Well, it’s technically free. Might as well eat it, right?”

You think the cupcake will taste awful, what with your downturned mood and all. It’s still as sweet and delicious as all the others they make here, and you try not to think of anything at all when yours and Dirk’s forks click together towards the end.


	4. Part 4 - By Quilly

To be honest, you didn’t have to get the robot part now, but you figure some retaliation for making you go inside the bakery is due.

(The cupcake was delicious, awkward frosting notwithstanding. You don’t mind chocolate, and the way Crocker closed her eyes for a few seconds every time she took a bite was certainly an experience.)

She gets on your bike with considerably more panache than she did last time, which is impressive, given that you get the vibe she’s the kind of goodie-goodie that subconsciously associates motorcycles with big bad biker dudes with greasy hair and questionable life choices. And leather jackets with the name “Bone-crusher” monogrammed on. Over a skull. Eating a snake. With an eagle somewhere because freedom.

The hobby shop is about ten minutes away, five if you drive recklessly, which is tempting, but overall, not on today’s menu. If she’s practically trying to tear your ribs out just by driving safely, you don’t want to know what she’ll do if you pop a wheelie and zoom through a red light. Which you could totally do. But you digress.

The yogurt shop next door is a green and red candy-swirl monstrosity; you’ve never given it much thought, really, but today there’s a boy in the window a little younger than you, giving the glass a good scrub. He leers when Crocker steps off the motorcycle and her dress rides up a little. You narrow your eyes but give no comment, since Crocker doesn’t seem to notice and it’s not your business, anyway. Objectively, she’s a cute girl, you guess. Curvy. Not bad.

“So what did you need here?” she asks, and you shove your hands in your pockets.

“Some sensors,” you reply. “Working on a spar ‘bot.”

Her eyes widen and you contain your smirk. To say nothing of the fact that it’ll be years before the technology catches up with your schemes, you’re mostly getting the basics to toy around with and learn how to reverse-engineer them so you can add your own modifications. It’s a hobby, but an absorbing one.

“Goodness, Mr. Strider, that seems complicated,” she says, and you glance at her to see if she’s being sarcastic, but no, the honest-to-god impressed look on her face is too genuine to fake. “Are you sure you can get parts for that in a little shop like this?”

“Sure can,” you say, opening the door for her because you weren’t raised in a barn. “Takes some tweaking, but it isn’t bad.”

The owner of the store knows you and nods as you come in, wiping his hands on a towel he keeps tucked in his work apron for that exact purpose. Guy has a serious sweat problem. And fabulous hair. It is unfair how the two coincide, because if he wasn’t a funky-smelling mouthbreather on top of that you might even be interested. Zahhak knows his stuff. You could use a guy like him around.

But you guess it’s uncool of you to think about shacking up with someone else when you’re on a date, even if you know you’re not interested in Crocker like that.

(Not saying you’re not interested, just not like  _that_. She’s like a little puzzle—the way she goes straight for the spy gear in the back is something you wouldn’t have expected from her, nor the practiced way she compares two different fingerprinting kits that look the same to you. You’re gonna have to keep an eye on her.)

You find the parts you need and sneak up behind her, mostly just watching her as she moves on to magnifying glasses. To your surprise, she ignores the huge goofy ones and instead selects a tiny sliding one, checking the lens.

“Wouldn’t have pegged you for the type to be into this kind of stuff, Crocker,” you say, and she jumps a little, then smiles.

“Of course! I love detective work. It’s so soothing,” she says. “Very logical and neat. Kind of like baking, I guess!”

“Or like robots,” you say, without meaning to, and she smiles.

“Yes, I suppose,” she says, and puts the magnifying glass down. “Are you ready?”

“Yep,” you say, and together you walk towards the counter. She examines the novelty items by the checkout and makes a face at you from behind a pair of glasses with a false nose and a moustache. You crack an honest smile without stopping to think about the ramifications.

(Dangerous, very dangerous, but it’s just so  _easy_  around her.)

But the game is just about over, you think as you open the door for her again. Her neighborhood is on the way and she hasn’t suggested another—

“Jane!” a high voice says, and you look to see a girl emerging from the yogurt shop, also younger than you, but you think you recognize her…doesn’t she hang around Lalonde? What’s her name?

“Callie!” Crocker says. “Hello, how are you?”

“I was just inviting you and your date inside for a five-ounce cup, on the house,” she says, and smiles at you, big green eyes bright, and you look down at Crocker, who looks up at you.

“I think we can afford to make another stop, can’t we, Strider?” she says.

“Be my guest,” you say, and together walk into the yogurt store.


	5. Part 5 - By Feli

You really should turn the yogurt down, the logical part of you insists. The chances that Calliope will be snapping pictures of your “date” to send to Roxy is astronomically high, and you’re really quite full from your last few excursions – but she is always so chipper and insistent. It’d make you a heel if you turned her down.

The yogurt shop is cool as you enter, emblazoned with eye-searing cherry red and lime green – and lacking a certain someone, much to your relief – and Calliope eagerly guides you both through the process of filling your cups with treats. You don’t take much, just a little bit of vanilla yogurt.

“Are you sure that’s all you want, love?” Calliope asks with a sad little frown. You nod.

“I wouldn’t want to be greedy when you’re being so hospitable,” You say.

Thankfully, Calliope heads to the back while the two of you sit in a booth. Dirk’s got orange yogurt with orange candies on it, and he’s not so much eating as he is swirling it around in the cup. “Gotta say, Crocker. If I knew hanging out with you meant free desserts, I would’ve approached you myself.”

You snort and take a spoonful of yogurt. “Oh, how kind. It’s wonderful to know that I’m essentially the perfect meal ticket, if one thinks of a balanced meal as cake and ice cream substitutes.”

“Why not? That’s plenty of food groups.” Again you laugh. “I’m serious. Right here there’s dairy and fruit, the cupcake was sugar and bread. Kung Pow Chicken is protein. We just need some veggies and we’re set for the day. Got the whole food pyramid taken care of. Those Ancient Egyptian nutritionists would be jealous of how expertly we broke that shit down.”

It’s becoming easier to smile around Dirk, despite the digs you took at each other. He really isn’t so bad! Clever, sharp, and he obviously had a sense of adventure about him. With every sentence he spoke, the mystery around him was revealed little by little, opening up more avenues for questions. He could be fairly popular if he reached out to others. But why didn’t he? It was a mystery that she latched onto immediately, and just as the wheels in her head began turning to find a way to crack it…

The doors to the back room were thrown open.

“Well! Look who decided to come inside. Our little shop!”

Oh,  _no_.

Caliborn comes out from behind the counter and right up to your booth, a wicked grin plastered on his face. Dirk ignores him until he slams his palms on the edge of the table, and then looks up sharply at this new person.

“Can we help you?” He asks, an eyebrow artfully cocked. Caliborn ignores him, eyes glued to your form. You can feel them burn where his stare lingers, and you try to stifle the urge to shrink back.

“How do you do, Crocker?” Caliborn asks, his voice like sludge in your ears. “I heard talk. That you had somehow landed a date! Did you have to beg on your knees for it?”

You grip the plastic spoon tightly in your hand. Where was Callie? She knows you can’t stand her brother. “Please leave me  _alone_ , Caliborn.”

He laughs like a braying donkey and a snorting pig and leans even further onto the table, until you can’t even see Dirk anymore. “I mean. We both know you’re such an ugly heifer. Only the most desperate of losers would even consider being your escort!”

The spoon starts to shake. He’s not worth throwing a punch, you tell yourself. It would just make him come back for more. That you knew from experience. “Go  _away_ , Caliborn.  ** _Please_**.”

“I saw you come up on that bike outside! I thought for sure! That it would snap underneath your monolithic girth!!”

Hot tears sting at your eyes, and you bow your head. You should escape the booth for the solitude of the ladies’ room, the only place he can’t follow you –

And suddenly Caliborn is off the table – no, he’s  _lifted_  off the table by the scruff of his neck, Dirk’s hands grasping it expertly. He stares Caliborn down over the rim of his shades and his eyes blaze like the sunset over a forest fire, and part of you  _jolts_  in a way you have never, ever felt before.

“Hey,” Dirk says. His tone is even, but you think you can detect a subtle growl to it. “Fuck off.”

For a moment there’s a flutter of panic in Caliborn’s eyes, and then he grits his teeth and glares. “And what kind of pathetic-”

“Let me repeat that.” You watch, dumbfounded, as Dirk carries Caliborn back around the counter, opens the back door, and tosses him inside. You can hear the other boy yelp in pain as he stumbles into something that clatters to the ground. “ ** _Fuck off!_** ”

There’s a pause. Dirk’s demeanor shifts, and he lifts a hand in peace. “Oh. Sorry, uh, Calliope? Right? He was bothering us.”

Your friend immediately beings to chitter away, bursting from the back with her brows knitted. Is everything alright? Is Jane okay? She should have known better than to let him distract her, he’d just made a big mess and she’d wanted it cleaned the right way, how could she turn her back even for a second? She apologizes a mile a minute as she ushers you both out of the store, begging that there won’t be any hard feelings between the four of you, will there?

“He’s not quite right in the head, you see,” She tells Dirk, following you both to his bike. “I try to keep him from causing trouble, but-”

“It’s fine,” You say. Your voice is tight, and your eyes are still wet. “I know it’s not your fault he’s abominable.”

With one last hug from Calliope she leaves you both, already yelling as she opens the door to the store. When it shuts, there is a terrible silence. It’s starting to get dim, but the streetlights aren’t on yet. Your stomach feels like a lead weight, and your ears burn.

Dirk shifts, hands in his pockets. “So does that happen often?”

Your head snaps up. “What?”

“Him. That guy, being a dick to you. What’s the frequency of that occurrence?”

Oh. “Um. Not often. He doesn’t really…get on with anyone. His parents usually keep him occupied elsewhere if Callie has friends over, or if we go out somewhere. He’s, uh, followed us once or twice.”

Your date grimaces. “Oh my fucking God.”

All you can do is nod. “Thank you, by the way. For doing that. You didn’t have to, he usually goes away if I don’t respond-”

But your words stop in their tracks with the look Dirk levels at you. It’s from over the rims of his shades again, and it’s less fury and more mellow, like seeing the sunset reflected in calm ocean waves. You suddenly feel absolutely awful for subjecting him to this truth or dare ridiculousness. You should’ve just danced on the table.

“Hey,” He says, “It’s fine.”

And you feel that funny jolt once more.


	6. Part 6 - By Quilly

You figure the date is more or less over and feel really awkward about what to do now.

Because when that little creep was terrorizing Crock…terrorizing  _Jane_ —you defended her honor so you might as well use her first name—something red-hot and furious welled up in you, something terrifyingly like…protectiveness. Her bottom lip is still quivering and her nose is running and her eyes are leaking and you kind of really need an out, because carting off pustulent pipsqueaks? Easy. Dealing with emotions, especially somebody else’s? Not…your gig.

However, because you are still totally a gentleman and not at all a coward:

“Do you want me to take you home now?”

Hesitation, indicative of indecision, inferring…does she actually  _like_  hanging around you?

You have no qualms about how this relationship started. Sure, the specifics are a little outside your knowledge sphere, but putting together Jane’s reluctance and Lalonde’s laughter wasn’t exactly rocket science. However, this is different. This is outside of your control and you should resent that, only your breath is hinging on the little curve her mouth is making as she opens it to answer.

“Yeah.”

You get the directions from her beforehand and drive carefully, like a model citizen, stretching out a ten-minute ride into a fifteen-minute one as you stop longer than necessary at every crosswalk and putter five miles under the speed limit in her neighborhood. It’s quaint, with blocky houses and perfect little lawns, so utterly suburban you could gag. Her house only stands out because of the tire swing and the second-story patio.

You turn off the bike and take off your helmet as Jane takes hers off and gets off.

“Thank you for a nice time, Mr. Strider,” she says, and you step off the bike yourself and hold out your arm.

“The pleasure was mine, Miss Crocker,” you say, and feel a thrill of gratification when she smiles a tiny, weak smile and threads her hand around your arm. Gonna end this evening right. “Can I walk you to your door?”

“You most certainly can!” she says, smiling wider, and you feel like the ultimate champ when you notice her eyes are dry and she doesn’t look half so miserable. You are the best date. It is you.

The front door opens as you clear the steps and you see a tall, dapper man in a hat with a pipe lodged in his amiable mouth, face and posture open but eyes screaming murder. Something in you withers up and surrenders instantly. You fear for the safety of the person who would ever do Jane wrong, for you know, in this moment, that the man who is dissecting you with his pupils is Jane’s father.

“Did you have a good time, kids?” he says politely.

“We did!” Jane says. “I’m going to say goodnight to him and then we can watch Who’s Line, okay, Dad?”

Her father gives you a very steady, very long look, in which you understand that your internal organs are only yours on the condition of Jane’s continued cheer and happiness.

“Alright, Jane,” he says, and offers his hand. “I’m Mr. Crocker, young man. And you are…?”

“Dirk Strider,” you say, without squeaking or breaking down and sobbing for mercy. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing to hide. No salacious thoughts to bury away forever. You are clean. He has nothing on you. Why is your palm sweating. “You have a very good daughter, sir.”

“I know,” he says, voice full of pride. “Well, Dirk Strider, thank you for getting Jane home safely.” You feel his eyes on your motorcycle. “Won’t you come in?”

“Oh, no, sir, I need to be getting home,” you say, hoping you aren’t rushing your words. Can he smell fear?

“Very well,” he nods, and winks at Jane. “Don’t keep me waiting too long, kiddo.”

When he leaves, you exhale, and Jane giggles at you.

“Sorry,” she grins. “He can be a little much sometimes.”

“Yeah,” you say dumbly. “Um.”

“Thank you for the date,” she says. “Thanks for…well, everything, I guess.”

You stuff your hands in your pockets. “Yeah. Uh. You too.”

She has a curiously sad smile on her face when you pluck up the guts to look her in the eyes again.

“Bye,” you say, because you can’t think of anything else, and you’re halfway across the lawn when she calls to you.

“Be careful getting home!”

“Sure,” you say, waving a little, and you stow the extra helmet and put yours on over your  head. “Take care, Crocker.”

“Of course, Strider,” she smiles, and you zoom off into the night, trying to shake off the too-light feeling on your ribcage.

You spend your weekend working on your spar ‘bot and very determinedly not thinking about Jane.

(You didn’t get her number.)

(Or her chumhandle.)

(Or anything, really.)

(This should not be disappointing.)

 ( _It is._ )


	7. Part 7 - By Feli

The weekend stretches longer than it should. Your phone blows up with texts from Roxy, most of which reach a peak of ridiculous lewdness on Saturday night and become increasingly more coherent as Sunday winds down. Those you skim, answering only when it is pertinent. You’ve learned that trying to hold a conversation with Roxy while drunk is not possible through any medium.

(The few texts from Calliope are answered promptly, though. Poor girl is still apologizing for her brother! It’s really not her fault.)

There is one text from your best friend that you have left unanswered though, simply because you don’t know  _how_  to answer it:

**lol so hoooow wuz teh DAET**

***date**

Because

Really

You don’t  _know!_

You spend all weekend pouring it over in your mind, every minute of that strange Friday afternoon brilliantly imprinted in your memory. Even after a bit of your Dad’s excellent meatloaf you can taste stir fry and cupcake and frozen yogurt on the back of your tongue, and the breeze that wafts through your open window is nothing like the wind that buffeted you earlier when Dirk’s bike wove through the streets. Dang it, exchanging numbers would have been a good idea! You want to chat with him some more – about his robots, about school, about anything and everything because he was still a mystery wrapped in an enigma, and blame it on curiosity or blame it on regret for having tugged him into the whole thing, but it was there regardless no matter what name you slapped onto it.

And then, as you finish up the last of your homework on Sunday night, it hits you – not what this drive in you is, but what you’re going to do about it. And you know what? You’ll go through with it, damn it, because once Jane Crocker has made up her mind there’s nothing that can change it!

~*~

Monday lunch periods are always tinged with lethargy. Students half-heartedly nibble on boxes of cold cafeteria fries and try not to fall asleep in their ketchup and mayo, some blatantly flaunt their exhaustion and use piles of brick-hard textbooks as pillows. But not you. You’re awake and alert, and as you walk with tray in hand, others perk up in your wake, though they don’t know what for. They will soon.

“Jaaaaaney!” You hear from your table. Roxy is waving you over, Calliope and Jake looking around her with an eager impatience. “No use excapin’ me, Janey-Jane! You gonna spill about the Strudel – fuck, _Strider_  Experience?” She says it loud enough to catch the attention of the tables around her, but you just give her a bright smile.

“Sorry Ro-Lal,” You say, “Could you wait until gym? I’ll tell you then.”

The comment throws her off completely, and you continue onward. Those eyes turning your way? You can’t feel them lingering on your back as you cross the unspoken barrier and clear your throat.

“Mist…er, Dirk?”

Dirk is sitting alone, as usual. He’s got his food in one hand and a pen in the other, scratching out some equation in the margins of his History homework. His eyes dart up to you immediately.

“… _Mister_ Dirk?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.

“No, um – Dirk! Just Dirk.” Great, your first flub, and you haven’t even put the plan into motion yet. You give him a brilliant smile. “Mind if I join you today?”

The cafeteria holds its breath, and Dirk stares at you hard. You think you see his eyes flicker behind his shades, to where Roxy is watching the exchange with her mouth comically hanging open. It makes you think for a second that he’s expecting a catch.

“…Sure.”

“What?”

“I said sure, Jane, geez. Clean out those ears why don’t you.” He pushes some of his books aside to make space for your tray, and the students around you gasp and whisper loudly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

That smile of yours lessens, but it becomes all the more sincere for it. “Is it really so strange to want to sit with a friend?”

 

 

 

(Roxy gets his information from perusing your phone at a later date and solicits him for outings – what you later find out was her true objective in baiting you into a date with him. Dirk says he regrets ever letting you join him at his table, but he smiles a lot more lately, so you’re fairly certain he’s only joking.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all we wrote!


End file.
